


Just As She Is

by S_Faith



Series: My Own Little Sub-Universe [14]
Category: Bridget Jones's Diary - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-25
Updated: 2013-08-25
Packaged: 2019-11-28 16:22:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,113
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18210698
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/S_Faith/pseuds/S_Faith
Summary: At his uncle's prodding, Mark considers public office… but is it at too high a price?





	Just As She Is

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: Not mine. Well, except for Uncle Nick.

It wasn't an invitation to lunch so much as a summoning. He knew better than to refuse or delay, especially given the person doing the summoning. There were only a few people for which he would immediately snap to attention, no questions asked. His wife, for sure, was at the top of that list; not that doing her bidding was any hardship. His parents, yes, for certain.

But especially he listened to his uncle.

He arrived at the restaurant with time to spare, only to find his uncle already at the bar with a drink and a penetrating look directed at his nephew. As always, he wore an impeccable suit, this time grey, his apparent favourite; to Mark it looked more than ever like brushed steel. "Mark," he grumbled.

The words "Sorry I'm late" almost came tumbling out of Mark's mouth before he realised that he was not in fact late at all. "Is our table ready?" he asked.

"It is," he said. "We'll get you a drink and be seated."

It was barely noon and he didn't feel much like a scotch, but he knew better than to countermand his uncle's directives.

Once at the table, they did not say a word. Mark began to feel a bit anxious, as if he were an errant schoolboy waiting for the hammer, wielded by the head master, to drop. It was ridiculous given his age and stature in the world… but some things never would change.

"Nick," he said abruptly. "What is the meaning of this? A last-minute invitation to lunch, during which you apparently propose to not say a word?"

Nick cocked a brow. "May I be allowed to place my order first?"

Mark was chastened, and sat back as the waiter appeared to take their order. Once he was gone, Nick said, "All right, let's get this out of the way so that we may eat in peace."

Mark said, "Let's have it, then."

"I have a proposition for you that I want you to seriously consider."

"Proposition?" Mark echoed. 

"Yes." He sipped his drink. Mark waited for more. "Ran into an old friend of mine at a social event last weekend." When Mark asked who it was, Nick told him; Mark's brows rose in surprise. The old friend was a higher-up in the Tory party. "Asked me about you, if you'd ever considered a run at politics. If you were interested. If you haven't given it thought, boy, you should. I can lend my considerable weight behind it."

"I haven't considered it," said Mark, "for two main reasons. One: I am intensely private at the best of times, and those willingly putting themselves into the public eye face intense personal scrutiny. The other… Bridget."

"What of her?"

"I'm not sure I wouldn't sleep on the couch for the rest of my life if I ran for some kind of office representing the Tories," he said in a joking tone, but he was all too aware of the fact that her political leanings were quite opposite to his own.

"Have you anything to be ashamed of in your past?" Nick asked.

Mark's mind raced and his face flushed, as if he had suddenly forgotten his past as a drug trafficker. "No, of course not."

"Aside from the serious lapse in judgment marrying a boring, brown-nosing mannequin—I mean, you redeemed yourself with Bridget, but—" 

Mark bristled. "Thanks for bringing _that_ up again."

"My point is, the public can scrutinise all they like," said Nick. "They'll find _nothing_. And as for your wife… give her a little credit, why don't you? You're young, you're honest, and most of all, you're not a hypocrite. She won't care for which party you're running if you can do good work." He stared in silence for a few, then said, "Are those your only objections? Would you want to do the work otherwise?"

He really had not given it much thought, and he said so.

"The party needs someone with your quick mind paired with your righteous moral sense, Mark," he said. "The reputation of the Tories needs to be redeemed after all that nonsense."

Mark was fully aware this little speech was intended to puff up his ego, but in all honesty, the more he considered it, the more appealing it became. "I'll think about it."

"Not acceptable," said Nick vehemently, surprising Mark. "You'll do more than just think about it. I'm coming over for dinner tonight, and I'll talk to your wife if she doesn't, for some unknown reason, see the wisdom of this suggestion. Somehow, though, I think she'll agree with me."

Mark thought his optimism a bit much, but he agreed to plan for Nick's coming to dinner. "I'll call Bridget and warn her," he said with a smirk, to which Nick made a scoffing sound. Mark laughed then sipped his drink just as lunch arrived, and there was no further discussion of the matter.

As his work day resumed, though, Mark found his thoughts consumed by the notion of running for office. About being in a position to effect real change. About being the voice for a constituency. By the end of the day, the notion was verging on full-blown obsession, which was pretty amusing to him considering the seeds of the idea had only been planted that afternoon.

… … … 

"So what's this about Uncle Nick coming for dinner?" his wife asked as she came to greet him at the door with an enthusiastic hug and kiss; despite their being married for more than a year, in many ways, they were still very much like newlyweds. "Is something wrong?"

"No, no, not at all."

She regarded him with scrutiny. "What's the big secret?"

"I'd prefer to wait until he got here," he said.

"You're worrying me a bit," she said.

"No need for that," he said, then thought, _I hope_.

They'd already planned shepherd's pie for dinner, which fortunately meant there was plenty to spare for last-minute guests, and would go with the red wine they knew Nick would bring, because he always did.

He also turned up precisely at seven, also as he always did, with said bottle of wine and a peck on the cheek for his niece by marriage. "You're looking lovely as always," he said. "Shepherd's pie? Smells delightful."

"Flattery will get you everywhere," she said with a chuckle, relieving him of the bottle. "It's always nice to see you, but to what do we owe the pleasure of your company?"

"You didn't tell her?" he asked, his eyes flashing to his nephew. 

"I thought it'd work better as a joint presentation," Mark said.

"Now you've _really_ piqued my interest," she said.

"Why don't we get this out of the way before we eat?" Nick said.

"Yes, let's," said Mark, then joked, "because I _really_ want to eat dinner in uncomfortable, awkward silence."

Bridget looked alarmed. "You're not dying, are you?!"

"Don't be silly," said Nick, shooting Mark a glare. "I don't intend to ever die. And you, Mark, you don't do your wife any credit."

"I can't take the suspense anymore," said Bridget, her irritation evident in her tone. "Out with it already."

Nick looked to Mark; in retribution for Mark's little outburst and lack of faith, Nick was forcing Mark to come out with it. He took her hands. Clearing his throat, he said, "Nick approached me today with an idea that I've grown very fond of. He thinks, and I agree, that I should run for office."

She looked bewildered. "For office? Like… an MP?"

Mark nodded.

She said nothing at first, and even her expression was unreadable as she gazed up into his eyes, as if searching for more information.

"He's smart," said Nick drolly, "he's honest, and he's happily married and faithful to his wife."

It was then that the first hint of her feelings of the matter came to light when she smiled. "Mark, I think it's a great idea," she said.

"I know it's not for the party you support—" Mark said almost apologetically.

"You don't have to apologise," she said. "I support _you_."

"Really?" Mark said.

She burst out with a laugh and threw her arms around him to give him a kiss. "You don't have to act so surprised," she said, chuckling.

"I just thought…" he began, then stopped and smiled too. "I'll just shut up now."

"Good idea."

"I told you," said Nick in that superior growl Mark was so used to hearing.

Dinner was thus a pleasant affair, though the entire time, the fact that their lives were about to change was really sinking in for both Mark and Bridget. This was cemented when Nick said as he left for the evening, "I'll ring up my old friend in the morning and let him know it's all on."

… … …

The days to follow became very busy indeed; Mark had to raise his visibility amongst party members very quickly in a very short amount of time, and to do that he found himself accepting invitations for quite a few social events. Bridget was, of course, at his side and to him, his greatest asset. He could tell, at the first few, that she recognised that she was different from the other candidates' spouses; she never outwardly showed it, always appeared cheerful and supportive, but he could see by the appraising looks to the other women that she did not fit in. This fact did not bother him in the least; he loved that she was not formed from the same mould as the others.

After the second such event, she said to him that perhaps she should go out and get a new dress for the next event. He supported this wholeheartedly, and told her to have fun shopping for it.

"Ha," she said humourlessly, which was puzzling to him; she loved picking out new things.

In preparing for the next event, though, her tone became clear. Her outfit was much closer in appearance to something the other ladies at the parties might have worn: a grey, knee-length tweed skirt with a matching tailored suit jacket and a white blouse. Indeed it was attractive on her, but awfully staid and bland compared to her other dresses. "Oh," said Mark. "I wasn't expecting this."

"What else would you expect?" she asked.

"I… don't know," he said.

"Do you not like it?" she asked, turning in a circle. It really was exceptionally nicely tailored.

"I like it well enough," he said, placing his hands on her waist and smoothing the bottom of the jacket down. "And you look great it in it. It's just very different. It seems outside of your usual tastes."

"I thought that was the point," she said.

Now he was confused. "The point of what?"

She looked equally confused. "The hoorah working as your advisor told me to find something a bit more sedate for these things. I thought you knew."

"I most certainly didn't," he said, making a mental note to bollock the advisor. "You don't have to wear it if you don't like it."

She looked relieved, but seemed to think about it before she said, "No, I'll wear it. I don't want to detract from _you_ , the potential candidate. Maybe I was standing out a bit too much."

He took her in his arms. "You do know I like that about you," he murmured.

She laughed lightly. "I'm glad for it. Besides," she said, her voice taking on a naughty overtone, "what's underneath is a lot more fun. For after."

This made him chuckle and squeeze her tightly for a moment. "Well, let's go make our appearance," he said. "The sooner it's over, the sooner I can see what's underneath."

… … …

The following day, Mark rang up the man acting as his advisor, thinking it was a matter of his not understanding women, or especially Bridget. 

"Patrick Fitzpatrick," the advisor said as he picked up the line.

"Patrick, it's Mark Darcy."

"Mark!" he said, his voice brightening. "How did everything go last night? Smashingly well, I hope?"

"Quite well," he said, forcing himself to think only of the party itself. "I did want to speak to you of something that's troubling me, though."

"Oh, by all means," said Patrick Fitzpatrick.

"It's my wife. She was willing to wear something a lot plainer than she usually prefers—"

"Well done," he interrupted, sounding quite pleased. "How did she look?"

_Like a Stepford wife_ , he thought, but said only, "She looked fine, but that isn't the point. I strongly object to the need for her to change her wardrobe at all. I just don't find it all that necessary."

"I see," he said. "You know, I like your wife a lot. She's a very bright, very funny girl. But there's one thing you should understand, Mark: she should be in a supporting role only, for your candidacy. While it's very clear she must always be there and showing support for you, she can't take away too much of your spotlight. Positive or negative attention on her opinions, on who she is, is a distraction." Fitzpatrick paused to clear his throat, then added with a smirk as evidenced in his voice, "And frankly, so are her short skirts, if I'm to be honest. She cannot be Bridget Jones, the columnist. She must be Mrs Darcy, supporter of candidate Mark Darcy. It's all very carefully constructed for a positive public image that puts the focus on _you_."

The entire exchange left a very bad taste in his mouth. "I see," he said at last, fully aware he was not being very original. "And this works?"

"It's brought great success to the party to present a constructed public image of this nature. A wife who stands by her husband as candidate—but not too much focus on her as a person. Has worked very well indeed."

Coincidentally enough, he thought of Cherie Blair, of her incredible popularity and of the win for Labour's Tony Blair, who was certainly _not_ hindered by the fact that his wife was a person in her own right. He was suddenly quite dismayed at the realisation that this attitude would prevail and continue well past candidacy, but into life as a public servant. In the public eye.

"I can tell you aren't crazy about the idea," Fitzpatrick went on. "But you'll just have to trust me on this. She seemed very receptive to all of our ideas: dress modestly, not expressing any controversial opinions, that sort of thing. But don't worry—we won't ask that she completely stifle who she is."

_Feels as if you've already asked her to do that_ , he thought. "Thank you," said Mark, then put down the phone, feeling oddly unsettled.

… … …

"Hear everything's going well." Nick was over for dinner again, and from his grin Mark could tell he was pleased at the progress Mark had made within the ranks. "You are well on your way. Listen to that Fitzpatrick. He knows of what he speaks."

"I wonder about that," said Mark. "They seem to be hell-bent on treating her like she's a throwback from the '50s."

"It's what works," said Nick. "Among the base, I mean."

"I can't see gaining many _new_ voters with these outmoded ideas," he said. 

Bridget joined them again at this point. "Outmoded ideas? Ah. You must be talking of Mr Fitzpatrick." Bridget chuckled. "Name already shows a congenital lack of originality. I mean, really. His parents couldn't come up with something besides 'Patrick'?" 

Nick smirked.

Mark began, "But you're okay with wearing—"

"It's not that bad," she interrupted. "The cut's really nice, makes me look thin at any rate."

Suddenly, Mark felt compelled to ask, "What else did Fitzpatrick tell you to do… or not do?"

She shrugged. "Mostly to just not rock the boat too much."

Mark pursed his lips. 

"I can behave when asked, you know," she said with a giggle.

"When's the next event?" asked Nick.

"Tomorrow night," she said. "I'm totally prepared. I've got another suit like the grey one." She stood again and indicated the length of the skirt at just past her knee, so they both could see, before sitting at the table again. "This time, in exciting navy blue."

"Oh, my boy, that must tear the heart out of you," Nick said. "I know how much you prefer shorter skirts on your wife."

Mark ignored his uncle (and pushed out thoughts of her shapely legs) and instead suggested, "Maybe you can wear a patterned shirt under."

"Oh, I don't know," she said brightly. "Maybe."

"I'll see you there then," Nick said, then added with a chuckle, "Though I suspect Fitzpatrick will have heart palpitations if you wear a striped shirt."

… … …

The following evening, when Bridget came out dressed in the navy suit, he could not help but think all traces of her personality had been obliterated: the navy suit looked very flattering, indeed, but she'd worn a plain pale cream blouse, pearl necklace, low heels, and hair was swept up tidily with no stray wisps flying free at all.

"What do you think?" she asked, turning in a slow circle.

"You look beautiful," he said; despite looking like she was wearing a costume, she really did look lovely.

"Don't remind you too much of Natasha, I hope?" she teased, with a wink.

"You are far less cylindrical," he said, taking her into his arms, slipping his hands over her waist then the curve of her bottom, "and thank God for it."

A low laugh bubbled in her throat. "What's underneath is even more outrageous and shocking than last time."

"Thank God for that too," he growled, then kissed her.

"Oh," she said, breaking away with a laugh. "We can't get into all that now, darling, so stand down. We have to be there when it starts."

" _Now_ you pick the time to start being punctual," he grumbled.

This made her laugh again. "I am your perfect Tory-esque wife now."

She meant it at a joke, but he found he was not all that amused.

The evening was not exciting by any stretch of the imagination, though he noticed something very curious: on at least two occasions that evening, he bore witness to one or another of his fellow Tory party members (one of which was his uncle's friend) making an outrageously outmoded statement, to which Bridget said absolutely nothing. She smiled in a rather forced manner—he imagined she was biting down on her tongue to keep from speaking her mind—but let the statement go unchallenged. This, obviously, was not like her at all. The first time he saw this happen, he was honestly afraid she might tell him to sod off… only in much more colourful terms.

"How did I do tonight?" she asked with a smile. "I think I can do this thing pretty well."

Her question and subsequent statement disconcerted him greatly. He didn't like that she had to play act to pass muster, that she had to pretend to be someone she was not. This did not sit well with him at all, and did so even less the more he thought about it. "You did fine," he said quietly, and it wasn't a lie; she had been quite convincing.

He just didn't like it.

… … … 

As days passed, as more events were attended, he liked it even less. He was proud of his wife, of her accomplishments, and loved the sparkling, witty woman she was. Yet time and again he heard some pompous arse make a sweeping statement, knew Bridget had an opinion on it, and yet she said nothing. He hated seeing her hamstrung in such a way, especially for a cause that was increasingly not worth it.

He also realised that any change he'd hoped to effect was dead in the water. If they were so bound to remake his wife into the most bland, boring, non-opinionated version of herself, they would certainly not give any leeway to the prospective candidate to do anything more than toe the party line.

He was disillusioned, and he hadn't even announced a candidacy yet. This was all he could think of as the pair of them arrived to yet another one of these meet-and-greets. To his uncle, just post-arrival, he asked in private irritation, "Why do they do so many of these in such a short amount of time?"

Nick said, "I think they just like the excuse to drink."

It made Mark laugh—though it was the last laugh he'd enjoy that night.

He spent most of the evening not talking but listening, though did offer his opinion as required and his opinions were hardly as radical as Bridget's. However, it was one such conversation that cause Mark to reach his boiling point.

Laughing boisterously, the man who purportedly was his advisor said, "Darcy, old chap, you're not turning lefty on us, are you? Not becoming one of those weak-willed, gullible, bleeding-heart liberals, I hope?"

Murmured chuckles rose up around them; reflexively, Mark looked to his two companions. Nick looked amused; Bridget looked like she might draw blood at any moment for biting her tongue.

Yes, it was this moment that Mark decided he could take it no more. He slipped his arm around his wife's shoulders and said in a completely placid tone, "Oh, you mean like my wife?"

"I… er…" Patrick Fitzpatrick stammered.

"A woman, by the way, who is the least weak-willed person I know. Not gullible—willing to believe the best in people. Not bleeding-heart—compassionate. And, thank God, warm-blooded, unlike some of _you_."

Bridget looked shocked. Nick laughed aloud, causing the assembled to blink nearly in unison. Coolly, Mark said, "I think we ought to be going."

With that, the three of them left. The silence accompanying them was open-mouthed, absolute and perfect; not a single word was uttered the whole time. Mark knew they were probably to some extent offended, but that they very much didn't want to burn bridges, didn't want to say something they'd regret, when it came to one of England's foremost legal minds… even if he wasn't going to run. 

Once out of the venue (a much-hyped but overrated restaurant, which seemed very appropriate), Nick began chuckling again. "It's not that I find the situation funny," he said before Mark or Bridget could ask. "Rather, it's your reaction, Mark, that I found so amusing. It's almost as if you were channelling Bridget."

This took Mark aback, until he started to laugh, too. "I guess you're right."

"It's awful, though," said Bridget. 

"Awful? How?"

"They're never going to let you run now."

Mark took her hands and drew her close. "Considering I have decided not to run, I think we have come to a mutual understanding."

"Not run? After all _that_? Why?" she asked.

"I can't sacrifice this," he said. "They were trying to turn you into, well, someone you aren't, and it wouldn't have ended if I'd won. I love you as you are, and nothing is worth changing you."

"I suppose I can forgive you dropping out," said Nick, "when you have the only possible acceptable reason."

She still seemed a bit stunned, but at least seemed happier than initially. "I can't believe you're dropping this."

"Is it so unbelievable that I'd put you first?" he asked with a grin.

Before she could respond, Nick spoke up. "I thought they treated you appallingly, child. Wanting to change everything about you. Ludicrous priorities."

She laughed, then put her arms around Mark. "And this is exactly why they actually need someone like you involved," she said, "but I'm happy all the same that you have the priorities you do." She drew back, big smile on her face. "So… shall we get some supper? A chip stand, perhaps?"

The look from both Mark and Nick sent her into gales of laughter.

Instead, they decided to celebrate their freedom by heading to The Globe for a round of drinks and good, hearty, proper dinner. "You know, Mark," said Bridget, "I have an idea."

"Oh?" 

"Yeah," she said. "It's brilliant. You'll love it." She was smiling devilishly. 

"I remain dubious," said Nick drolly. "What's this idea?"

"Well, if you're not going to run as a Tory," she said, pausing to sip her drink, "why not run as Labour?"

Mark knew immediately she was not serious, but Nick seemed shocked, so Mark said, "That's an interesting thought." This caused Nick to practically recoil and turn to look at him in absolute horror. 

At this they could no longer contain their mirth, and in unison they smiled, then laughed.

_The end._


End file.
